


Harry's Flower

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Banker Draco Malfoy, Community: hd_owlpost, Light Angst with Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Draco had always received one flower—no more, no less—from Harry every day. He never thought the flowers would run out, until Harry was critically wounded…





	

**Author's Note:**

> Owl for capitu, 2016 hd_owlpost on [LiveJournal](http://hd-owlpost.livejournal.com/155305.html). Much love to Fantasyfield09 for the quick and thorough beta! All remaining mistakes are mine.

For a Ministry-issue, the hip flask in Draco’s hand is surprisingly sturdy. All the days in the battlefields have only left a dent on the E of “POTTER”.

He taps its mouth against the dresser to shake out the contents. He once used _Accio_ before, and everything burst out like confetti: blood-stained flowers, their fallen petals, all caked in soil. Draco was on his knees for hours to recover everything, the dirt included, leaving the floor cleaner than the crew of St Mungo’s had ever managed.

Draco isn’t new to the Spell Damage ward, being Harry Potter’s husband. What is new is the unexpectedness. He didn’t receive a bouquet days ago with the stuttering apology of the man who has Draco’s heart and soul in his palm. The man who, five years after the war, still finds the safety of Wizarding Britain more important than his life and what he and Draco have.

Harry always makes sure the bouquet will have more than enough flowers to last till his return. A flower a day; that’s the promise he’s never made by words but has kept since he tucked the thistle behind Draco’s ear. Harry knows the promise. And he knew twenty-seven days ago to fill his flask with flowers between the ambush and dueling those hit wizards face to face.

Ron told Draco this, in this room with this bed and the same unconscious Harry lying in it and between them. Twenty-seven days ago, on which Draco was handed the flask, stuffed with wildflowers carrying the rain and violence from the highlands. The flask was much fuller then. There were twenty-seven flowers inside.

A daisy falls out. A pathetic excuse of one. Its remaining petal is more rust than white and Draco’s patience snaps at the sight of it. He tips the flask and shakes it with all his might, the thud of its mouth hitting the wooden surface dull yet unbearably loud like nails driven into a coffin.

A lone grain of dirt bounces onto the dresser. There’s nothing left inside.

Draco collapses in his chair. He has bargained here and shouted, screamed and cried, but Harry has gone deaf on him. He presses the flask against Harry’s face, the pewter still cold even though Draco has held on to it for hours. What about this void inside? No doubt Harry can hear this? It’s dark and vast like the sky outside. Draco has hoped that by staying up all night, by taking the last flower at this time, he can pass it off as two. He has hoped he can pretend that today isn’t the day he’s finally out of flowers and Harry’s unspoken promise of love. But dawn is coming, and feeble charades like this stand little chance against the scrutiny of light. He slumps forward, his head on Harry’s chest, on a heartbeat meek but coldly rhythmic, exactly opposite of what a heartbreak should sound like…

“I’m out, Harry,” he whispers.

_I’m out of flowers. I’m out of faith._

*~*~*~*~*

Harry Potter loves giving Draco flowers. He is also a hopeless … non-romantic. 

Most of his flowers are mere records of his hours away. Such as those from days when he’s stuck in the office—origami made of used parchment bits from meetings, shaped like a tulip in its most liberal sense and folded into existence by the most afterthought of afterthoughts. It’s up to Draco to find, among the chicken scratch on Britain’s up-and-coming foil and portraits of Robards sashaying in tutus, proof that Draco owns the cosmos that is Harry’s mind in a chain of his name weaving among the scribblings. Such as those from Three Broomsticks—napkin balls still wet from the sweat of beer mugs. _Carnations_ , Harry claims with his drunk, happy grin, while Draco un-balls them to find the messages that have evolved from early, polite _Hello, Draco_ ’s to the latest _We miss your arse (get it here next time)_  in Ginny’s wild cursive and seconded by a bunch of arrows annotated with _YEAH_ and _THIS_ , all encircled by a wreath of hearts that was no doubt Luna’s work. 

The other flowers arguably serve their traditional purpose, replacing the three words that Harry—and Draco—never seems to find the voice to say. One found an unexpected limelight too, giving birth to the Legendary Photo Series and the Great Debate. It started when, in yet another manifestation of its love-hate relationship with the Aurors, the patrol division leaked the photos of a tired and bloody Auror scaling a lamppost one snowy night to steal a begonia from the hanging basket, forgetting that street flowers were charmed for twenty-four hour surveillance. The Prophet headlined the photo series, which culminated with two very oversized green orbs closing in on the bloom, with “The Window to a Hero’s Soul”. A maelstrom of a debate soon consumed Wizarding Britain. Is the famed Chosen One a kleptomaniac? A fly animagus? Both? Hogsmeade suffered a fly infestation that summer, much to Draco’s amusement, for its residents were too afraid of accidentally swatting the Chosen Arse. 

Harry wasn’t so amused. Lucky for him, the rest of the flowers are just between the two of them. The lone lotuses drifting on its tub of oil, for example, into which they dip their fingers before reaching for and inside each other. Draco still remembers that time he opened the bedroom door to the sight of a tub like that, of Harry unclothed and his legs spread, his face pink and turned the other way. As Draco stood, frozen and mesmerized, Harry, who like Draco had been a virgin in every sense, began his quest. His fingers glistened in the low lamplight as they traced the curve of his thighs and arse, then searched and circled for their way inside, one after another, his lips letting out a quiet sob when each found success. Hours or days could have passed before Harry sat up and made eye contact with Draco for the first time that evening, his stomach spotted with release and his chest still heaving with lust. He whispered then, as only a Gryffindor would, “I want you to do this to me, Draco. Every night.”

Draco has, since.

But even those flowers did not define them as much as the first one, a thistle from the shore of the Black Lake. It was the token of the unspoken promise between them, the promise Draco assumed would never be broken. They were in their Eighth year, making new bricks for the castle. Draco wasn’t even sure how he became a member of what would be the Three Broomsticks gang, except one day Ginny had…witch-handled him and brought him to the Lake. He hadn’t fought back. He’d had nowhere else to go and no one to go anywhere with.

The tasks were split. Harry, the best swimmer among them, started the job by lifting silt from the bottom of the lake. Draco and the others stayed on the shore. Hermione and Ginny cleared the silt of seaweed and Grindylow whiskers while Ron divided the cleared silt up by weight. Draco packed the silt into blocks, which Neville loaded in flying cauldrons for transport back to the castle.

Luna was their cheering squad by excelling at being Luna. That day, she had disappeared early and returned with a basketful of wild flowers that she proceeded to wreath into coronets. She coronated Hermione and Ginny first, plopping the flowers on their heads with only a wide smile for explanation. They reciprocated her gift with a bright “Thanks” and a blowing kiss. Ron got his coronet next, more grudgingly, but with his hands stuck in a heap of mud he couldn’t do much to protest. Then Neville got his. Then his three cauldrons, one on each handle.

After petting the cauldrons on their bellies, Luna waved at Harry to come on shore.

Harry—still Potter then—was wading in the lake. Harry, who, in the premature heat of this April day, got to swim and dive in the cool lake water in shorts and a worn T-shirt…threadbare clothes that clung so intimately to the wet skin, the rippling muscles below…

He ran ashore on his bare feet, his grin as warm and wide as the sun and blue skies.

Draco wanted to look away but couldn’t, as he hadn’t been able to for years. He chanced a glimpse as Harry and Luna talked.

“I’ll pick some more,” Luna said, frowning at the lone coronet in the basket. Draco’s stomach gave a twist: Luna had thought of giving him a coronet too. 

“Don’t go. We’ve missed you all afternoon,” Harry replied. He peered into the basket, then glanced at Draco. Draco looked down—not nearly fast enough—and knew that instant Potter would save the last coronet for him.

Sure enough, Harry made a show of rummaging through the basket. “You’ve still got plenty of flowers in here.” 

Draco knew that was, at best, a half-truth. He had seen the contents of the basket while Luna had put it down to give the cauldrons their belly rubs. Yes, there were flowers other than those in the coronets, but all were less than perfect. Only one was still worthy to be called a flower—a thistle, far too prickly to be weaved into anything. Draco betted on Harry to take that one.

But then, Harry grabbed a fistful of broken petals from the basket and sprinkled it over his head. He jumped a little, shook his head like a wet, shaggy dog, then grabbed yet another fistful, giving a yelp as he shook this time. His yelp caught everyone’s attention: everyone looked up and laughed. Soon the broken petals were all gone, while Harry and his hair looked infested with—

“—Nargles,” Luna supplied for Draco’s and no doubt everyone’s mind readily. It sparked another round of chuckles and Draco was still smiling at his brick… until she approached him and knelt. 

She held the last coronet up for him, showing a tentativeness she hadn’t shown for the others. She was waiting for his permission. Draco was never truly one of them. He knew his place.

He shook his head and forced a renewed smile. “What about yourself?”

“Like I said,” she answered in all seriousness. “Nargles.”

“So you’re giving everyone Nargles?”

“Just Harry,” she said, matter-of-factly. She held the coronet higher. “This one’s for you.”

Draco sighed. He would never be able to resist her, not after their time together in the cellar. “All right,” he said, and bowed his head.

But the coronet had different ideas. It kept slipping off, refusing to stay on Draco’s head for more than a second. Everyone’s attention was on them now. Hermione wore a look as if Draco were a riddle to be solved and soon, indeed, she thought of something and whispered it to Ginny.

“Sleakeazy?” She repeated, a little too loudly, and chortled. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, we’re doing elf-labour here—”

Draco felt his face burn. Yes, he was wearing that, if that was to blame. Like he was wearing his robe and trousers and polished shoes, even though he’d spend an hour tonight Scourgifying them. There’s decorum to being a Malfoy that Draco wasn’t ready to give up yet, and a vanity too, in Harry’s presence. Even if Harry in his shorts and T-shirt and Nargled hair probably thought him as ridiculous as anyone else.

“It’s okay, Luna,” he whispered, staring at the half-molded block in front of him. “It’s probably my hair potion.”

Luna looked crestfallen. Behind her, meanwhile, Harry had crossed his arms and his brows furrowed in a light frown. He didn’t like something he saw.

Draco pounded his fist on the half finished brick. He couldn’t care less, he told himself. He pretended not to see the figure approaching him and kneeling down beside Luna.

“There’s got to be a way.”

When Draco dared to look up again, Harry had Luna’s basket on his lap, and the thistle clipped between his fingers. And before Draco could say a word, he muttered a cushioning charm and tucked the flower behind Draco’s ear shell, the thorns anchoring it in Draco’s hair.

“Here you go,” Harry said, in a quivering whisper but smiling, his fingers ghosting down along Draco’s jawline. It was the gentlest touch Draco had ever felt. Harry’s face was bright red, possibly the same shade as Draco himself.

Draco’s mouth opened Merlin knew how long later; speech had eluded him, it had no use for any conversation. Soon his eyes, too, became obsolete for any more eye contact—for Harry had sprinted off and dunked himself back into the lake. And it took him so long to resurface that Ron had already undressed, ready to jump into the water for fear that the Giant Squid had taken his friend hostage. It hadn’t, though Harry did look in constant desperation for air after he returned to the shore, especially when his eyes met Draco’s once more…

…and when Draco got another flower the next day, this time, a bright marigold also tucked behind his ear, its stalk coiling against the loose strands free of Sleakeazy for their first time. Draco had practiced objecting the entire night before, as if he’d been waiting, wanting for this to happen again, but his plan was foiled when the flower came with a kiss this time. Not that Draco could be sure it had been meant as a kiss, for it landed solidly on his eye, which triggered his yelp of pain and Harry’s scurrying away for yet another lake dunk, which subsequently led to Hermione forgetting the mud on her hands and covering her face with them. The whole debacle made sure Draco was perfectly compliant twenty-four hours later, when Harry tucked the third flower, a blooming Self-heal, behind his ear, and he tilted his head just so for Harry’s feather-light kiss to land on his cheek.

The days went by. Three flowers turned to four, five, six… and somewhere along the way, Draco became accustomed to getting flowers that Harry didn’t spend a Knut on, flowers that never exceeded the daily count of one per day. He became so accustomed to it that when these rules were finally broken, the circumstances would terrify him. A Permabloom charmed bouquet, exclusively offered by the Floriblunder’s, would come to mean Harry being sent on a weeks long Auror mission, one that would return him with more wounds and scars. As Draco picked a flower from the bouquet every morning and pocketed it with the cold iron keys of Gringotts, he wondered if there would be a day when Harry’s absence would outlast the flowers: if one of the flowers blooming so vibrantly before him would mock him with their promise to be broken come next daybreak.

Draco should have known that it would be a white daisy—same as the ones in the coronet that refused to stay on him—that would do the mocking…

*~*~*~*~* 

Maybe Draco had it wrong, still. Maybe the mockers would be Nargles instead, same as those in the broken daisies and in Harry’s hair. They are fluttering on Draco’s head when his eyes fly open. A tired beam of sunlight is sliding in between the close curtains, a yellow golden stripe that loses its focus as it crosses the floor. It must be late afternoon, if not early evening. He has slept through the day knelt beside the bed, his neck in pain with the twist it has sustained for hours. The chest under him rises and falls as it did before, slowly, meekly, up and down. The Nargles are still fluttering. He wants to lift his head but a gentle pressure pushes it down.

_Wait._

Draco thinks he hears the word. But it cannot be. It is barely audible, a poor imitation of a croak. Harry has a voice that carries; it’s down in the legends of the Burrow. But there’s a power in this word, a tremendous power echoing the deep, booming desperation inside Draco that convinces him to stay put, even though his heart is racing and threatening to Apparate from his chest. He stays put just as he did years ago by the shore of the Black Lake, as a flower found its place behind his ear. The Nargle’s flutter begins to find a rhythm. Or rather, now that his head is suddenly as clear as it can ever be, Draco is able to discern its rhythm…

His hair is being braided, albeit poorly. He’d put the Sleakeazy on his hair the previous day for Gringotts, and it has yet to completely wear off. The impervious, slippery shell from the potion is not the only challenge. The fingers searching, picking up the loose strands are slow and quivering, and drop the hair as often as they pick it up. But they persevere, as does the warmth, the gentlest touch that can only come from Harry.

When the motions finally stop, they do so with what feels like a coil and a tuck. Keeping his body fully stationary, Draco raises his hand and touches the back of his head. He finds a small bun there, held in place precariously with the end of the braid tucked under his still taut, potioned hair.

“Rose,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” answers the croak.

Draco straightens himself at last and turns towards the other end of the bed, still holding his flower in place with one hand. Harry’s face remains chalk-grey, and his arms are so spent from the braiding that one has dropped over the edge of the bed. But he is smiling, and those ridiculously green eyes, even without their usual brilliance, can still see into the heart of Draco’s soul like nothing else can, can still make Draco all flustered and prickly and defensive and so … confused at how the universe can set him up for the emotions flooding through him, the immense love and hope and fear of losing both.

“You… you bastard…” Draco doesn’t even know what he’s about to say, what hurtful words he’s about to spill that serve only to betray his hurt over the last twenty-seven days, for Harry saves him again by his soft gaze, his cracked lips puckering ever so slightly. Or that’s what Draco thinks Harry is offering him, a cue sent just so Draco can throw every word, every caution into the wind and throw himself onto the bed instead, his knees planted on the two sides of Harry’s emaciated frame, his hands cupping Harry’s face and his mouth kissing every inch of it with everything he got.

He can feel the rose unravelling behind his head. Harry must too: Draco has draped one of his arms around his own neck, just so it feels like Harry is pulling him in when Harry is too weak to do much more than to move his lips against Draco’s. He expects a scathing lecture from the Healer later on, and a major round of teasing from the Three Broomsticks gang should they burst into the room at this moment.

But it no longer matters. Nothing does, not with Draco’s heart blooming the way it is.

 

_— Fin_

 


End file.
